


Venice, the honeymoon and you

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: The English job [37]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comedy, Established Relationship, Fluff and Crack, Hand Jobs, M/M, Travel, Venezia | Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 11:57:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15339366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: On the anniversary of their marriage, John plans a honeymoon in Venice, but the trip will not exactly follow his plans.





	Venice, the honeymoon and you

**Author's Note:**

> Written for "Always 1895 prompt"

It had to be a surprise, a present to celebrate Sherlock’s birthday and their first anniversary, because the two dates are close, because when they got married they didn’t have their honeymoon, for they were shipped by Mycroft to the United States for a national security matter, and because John can’t conceive that Sherlock let his birthday pass every year as if it were an ordinary day.

It doesn’t matter that Sherlock Holmes has always done so, John wants things to be different for Sherlock Watson-Holmes, because, after all, he's an incorrigible romantic.

So he plans the trip secretly from his computer at the clinic, he asks for leave in advance, begs Lestrade not to give any case to Sherlock unless Jack the Ripper is back in town, organizes the travel and books a hotel in the the most romantic city on earth: Venice.

Everything's perfect.

Only he didn’t reckon Sherlock, Italy and a bad astral conjunction.

 

Sherlock understands what John has in mind after 37 hours and 16 minutes (he is improving in keeping secrets from him. Slightly) and lets out a desperate moan.

He’s not against celebrating their anniversary, and appreciates John’s thought, but the idea of a trip bothers him: there is no need to go 1,550 kilometers away to spend time together, they already do it at home, and the missed honeymoon has been widely regained during the year; moreover, moving from Baker Street would interrupt a daily routine that Sherlock is very fond of.

In the morning he gets up early, before John, and works on some experiment, sitting at the kitchen table, at the side near the sink, so he can watch John getting up, still sleepy, greeting him with a yawn (adorable) as he cards a hand through his hair and kisses him on the neck. Then, if the day before they had a case and John is particularly tired, he sits in front of Sherlock with his cup of tea and urges him to eat something; if there wasn’t any case, John bends over him and whispers in his ear: "Have you already had a shower?"

No, of course Sherlock hadn’t, he was waiting for him, and they end up in the bathroom, staying there much longer than necessary, and then they go down to Speedy for a quick brunch.

In the evening, when John comes back from work, if Sherlock is thinking about something, lying on the couch, John lifts his head, puts it back on his legs and then pets his hair absently while watching some silly tv show. But if John is tired, it’s Sherlock the one who makes him lie on his legs, while he browses through his phone.

And when Lestrade shows up at their door, with a case that he can’t solve, desperate for help, Sherlock can show all his deductive skills, and John looks at him admiringly, with that smile that he reserves only to Sherlock, and whispers: "brilliant", " fantastic", "incredible", all the time.

On holiday, there would be no way to carry on those consolidated habits, because they would spend their days among a mass of tourists, visiting churches and museums.

Initially Sherlock hopes that John will understand by himself how bad his idea is, but it doesn’t happen.

So he shows John that, if he wants a honeymoon, they don’t need to move from their bedroom, they can have all the sex they want, even twice a day, but John still doesn’t understands (even if the attempt proves to be very gratifying for both), and, in the end, Sherlock has to talk to him openly.

 

John comes out of the bathroom and finds Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the bed.

"Weren’t you sending an email to Molly for those necrotic tissues to examine?"

Sherlock waved a hand in the air.

"It can wait; now I have to talk to you about something important."

"I’m listening," John answers, sitting next to him.

"It's really not necessary to go on holiday."

John's face twitches with a strange grimace that even Sherlock struggles to decipher: there is disappointment (he didn’t expect to be discovered... seriously, John?), resignation (now he realizes that it was just a matter of time), and confusion (he doesn’t understands the reason for Sherlock’s statement).

"Sherlock, you talk about it as if it were a duty of some sort, when it's a pleasure trip instead."

A part of John knew very well that Sherlock would find out, but he expected a more enthusiastic reaction from him.

"Details: if we go on holiday, we have to leave our flat."

"Uh, yes… is there a problem with that?"

"I don’t feel like it."

"Sherlock, once you went to Minsk only to consider whether or not to accept a case!"

"Yes, but…"

"Are you saying that being with me is worth less than an unaccepted case?" Asks John, who is already angry.

"No, nothing like that! But to be with you, I just need you, I don’t need to cross half the continent and stay in a luxury hotel."

It's sweet from Sherlock to think so, to the point that John is speechless.

"We can spend the holiday here at home: I promise you I will not take any case, even if it were a 9."

A week of their routine would be the perfect holiday for Sherlock, but John has a different opinion.

"This wouldn’t protect us from unforeseen events, like a surprise visit from your brother or your parents, or Mrs. Hudson, who needs a DIY mould cleaner for 221C. And then, almost all the couples celebrate the anniversary with a trip, and I would like it to be the same for the Watson-Holmes couple."

Having a former soldier for husband has many advantages, inside and outside the bedroom, but also some flaws, including the fact that John insist on following the rules and doing things by the books, even when it’s not needed.

Does Cosmopolitan say that nothing is better than a trip for a wedding anniversary?

Then John Watson-Holmes will organize a trip.

Sherlock knows that if he insists with logic and rationality, he would eventually persuade John that he’s right, but he also knows that John really committed himself to organizing that holiday.

"Okay," he finally grants.

"Really?” John asked, slightly surprised: he thought he should have insisted more on convincing Sherlock. “You will not try to boycott me in any way?”

The outraged expression on Sherlock’s face is so funny that John hits him with his pillow.

 

The most tragicomic aspect of the story is that Sherlock doesn’t have to do anything to boycott the travel.

 

Sherlock and John land at Orio al Serio airport, because John, although booking well in advance, hasn’t found a direct flight from London to Venice, and therefore they must make a stopover.

John doesn’t think it’s a problem: after all they just have to wait a couple of hours for the next flight.

As Sherlock sits down and continues to read the scientific journal that has kept him busy during the flight, John diligently waits in line in front of the luggage conveyor belt, smiles at the passage of a pink trolley, and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

He waits until all the passengers of their flight have taken their suitcases, and he is the only jerk in front of the empty conveyor belt, and then he turns to Sherlock.

"I think we have a problem."

Sherlock looks up from the article on reduplicative paramnesia, and looks at his husband, devoid of baggage.

"Ah."

"Maybe they just fell while they unloaded them from the plane. Come, let's go and ask at the lost and found office."

Certainly not the best way to start their holiday.

The young lady who listens to John is friendly, professional and absolutely calm, as if she hears stories like his every day (which is not very reassuring).

She does some research on the computer, and then talks to John in a strongly accented English.

"I can only tell you that your baggage is not here: it's likely to be flying to Bergen or Baghdad."

John's mouth opens in a perfect 'o' of dismay.

"W-Why?"

"The three airports have similar IATA codes" she replies, shrugging, as if it were perfectly acceptable.

This means that, when they will arrive in Venice, they can only count on the hotel's welcome kit, and then they should buy some clothes. John glances at Sherlock, standing behind him: that situation will not please him, but he seems to endure it with stoicism, at least for now. Fortunately they kept both laptops and valuables in their hand luggage.

"Listen, can we fill out the complaint form quickly? You know, there's another flight we have to take," explains John, showing her the tickets.

The woman looks at the tickets briefly and smiles, always in a very professional way, handing him the form to fill out.

"You don’t have to worry about it."

"Why, the plane will wait for us?"

"No, the flight was canceled," she replies, deadpan.

"What?"

"All flights to and from the Marco Polo airport are canceled due to a local strike of air traffic controllers," she states, as calm as a Zen meditation master.

"How is it possible?” John cries. The more the woman is calm, the more he feels the hysteria rise. “I checked last night and there was no news about a strike."

"It was called this morning."

"And how long will it last?"

"24 hours. Maybe more."

A shiver of terror runs along John's back: it's impossible to keep Sherlock in an airport for a whole day with nothing to do, he will go crazy and drive everyone crazy before noon.

"It's ridiculous," Sherlock blurts. "Come on John, let's rent a car."

Sherlock refrains from arguing that he was right, and it was better to stay home for the holiday, because neither the loss of baggage, nor the strike is John’s fault, but this doesn’t mean that he isn’t deeply irritated by the situation.

As Sherlock walks quickly toward the airport car rental and John trots by his side, his husband keeps glancing nervously at him.

"Stay calm, I will not make a scene: I don’t want to spend the night in a prison in Bergamo."

"That’s not what I was thinking,” John protest. “It's for the car. Are you sure?"

"We both have a driving license, why are you asking that?"

"Because here they drive on the wrong side of the road," John mumbles, and Sherlock chuckles.

"Don’t make yourself heard: according to the people of the continent, it's the opposite."

His husband's laugh dissipate the irritation John is feeling for how the journey began: he isn’t happy at the idea of traveling by car for more than two hours, but he read that the Northern Italy countryside is nice and pleasant, they can see some beautiful landscapes.

Or not.

When they reach the parking lot of the car rental, they find themselves in front of a white, wet and dense fog, while a chilling wind penetrates under their heavy winter coats.

"What the fuck is this?"

"Fog. Seriously John, made by a Londoner is a ridiculous question."

"This is not mere fog!” John protest, pointing to the white wall, so dense that it seems that you can touch it. “This is the fog from The Mist."

Sherlock looks at him without understanding the reference, and John sighs: not having been able to make his husband love Stephen King's novels, is one of the greatest failures of his life. 

But anyway, whoever makes jokes about the fog of London, should eat their tongue and see this first.

"If it troubles you that much, I’ll drive," says Sherlock, dangling the keys in his fingers.

He hits a sore spot, because John grabs them and sits behind the wheel.

"Come on, we're already late."

However, John quickly regret his decision, because there isn’t only the fog to watch out, there are also thousands of Italians who drive wildly, as if there were no view problems.

Their car moves only a few meters from the exit of the airport parking lot, and is slowly approaching a roundabout, when a taxi honks furiously, and overtakes them by climbing on the sidewalk. When the two cars are side by side, the taxi driver pulls down the window and shouts something that John doesn’t understand, but that certainly doesn’t sound like compliments.

“Pota! Dèsdet fò, daiii, che l’vé sà matina!” [1]

A little further on, other cars are coming from a secondary road to their right, and they should give way, but instead they pass without any problem.

Not wanting to cause any crash, John slows down, but this causes the crazy reaction of the drivers in queue behind them, who start flashing the headlights and honking angrily.

It's a fucking nightmare: not even driving a tank in the Iraqi desert was such a source of stress.

"You aren’t facing the road with the right spirit,” Sherlock observes. “Do you know the saying  _ ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do' _ ?"

That said, he lowers the window, starts gesticulating and shouting profanities, obviously in a perfect Italian, to the drivers who aren’t giving them way, and the cars magically slow down to let them pass.

"This goes rightfully on the list of the most ridiculous things you've ever done," John laughs.

"I only spoke a language that they can understand."

Finally they are on the highway, but shortly after, the long line of cars in front of them slows to a complete stop.

The sat nav doesn’t update immediately to report accidents, the only radio that gives traffic information, transmits a short bulletin in English every hour, merely stating if there’re road works or accidents, but without providing any alternative route.

After an hour, the traffic disappears for no apparent reason, and starts to flow faster.

As they are about to arrive at a gas station, John asks Sherlock if he wants a coffee or needs the loo, but Sherlock, still busy reading his scientific journal, shakes his head.

Not half an hour later, the cars slow down and stop again.

Soon Sherlock begins to give obvious signs of nervousness: he snorts, moves on the seat, undoes the seat belt (but John order him to fasten it again,  _ right now, Sherlock! _ ), drums his fingers on a knee, and in the end he makes John nervous, too.

"Sherlock, please, I know you're getting bored, but I can’t do anything about the traffic."

"It's not for that," he mumbles.

"So what is it?"

"I need the loo."

"I asked if you needed it twenty minutes ago, when we passed the gas station, and you said no."

"Well, I need it now!"

The traffic doesn’t give sign to move, and the next gas station is far away.

"Hold it."

"I like a lot of things, John, but watersports are not among them."

"I don’t know what to say, I will not use the emergency lane just to get you to a toilet."

"But this is an emergency!"

"No."

"All right, you don’t leave me other choice, then."

"Wha...? No! Come back to the car!"

John tries to grab him by the sleeve of his coat, but Sherlock is faster. He gets out of the car and disappears into the fog in a ditch beside the highway. One of the few reasons to thank that infamous weather.

"I don’t know you" John mumbles, resting his head on the steering wheel, thinking about the amount of laws and rules of the sense of decency that Sherlock is breaking.

Sherlock returns to the car after a few minutes, visibly more relaxed.

"Anyway, we'll stop at the next station, so you can wash your hands."

"You're needlessly obsessed with hygiene, doctor," sighs Sherlock, shaking his head, and then entertains John for almost an hour, telling in detail how many germs are collected every day on human hands, touching objects:  grab handles on the Tube , money, the steering wheel and the seats of a rented car...

"Enough, I understand!"

They are still in the car after three hours, while they should already have been in Venice, so John, worn out by the traffic, decides to search on the sat nav for an alternative route.

But he didn’t consider that in the open countryside the fog is even thicker and that, despite this, the inhabitants of the area carry out their daily commitments as if nothing had happened. 

So they drive for almost half an hour behind a farm tractor that carries huge bales of hay (and no, despite Sherlock’s insistence, John refuses to overtake it,  _ “I don’t wanna fall in an irrigation canal, Sherlock” _ ), a flock of sheep that crosses the road in all their slowness, and a group of tall and slender figures that can be barely seen in the thick fog, and that John mistakes for aliens, before discovering that they are some cyclists who occupy the whole lane, regardless of the cold, of road traffic regulations, and common sense, since they don’t wear any reflective gear, nor do they move aside to let them pass.

Finally, after having tried three full parking lots on the mainland before finding a free spot for their car, and an unpleasant journey on a ferry packed with people, they finally arrive at their hotel, but at that point John is almost regretting not following Sherlock's advice to stay at home.

He throws himself face down on the bed and growls his irritation, but after a while Sherlock shakes him by the shoulder.

"Take a shower, you'll feel better afterwards. In the meantime, I order dinner."

"And we should also go and buy some clothes."

"Tomorrow: it's late now, the shops are closed."

Sherlock is right, the hot water washes away all the weariness; once finished, he wraps in the soft white bathrobe and goes out.

"The bathroom is free..."

John stops at the sight of his husband, who is serving food in the plates, completely naked.

"Are you crazy? Why are you naked?" John barks, as he dashes to close the curtains, considering that Sherlock didn’t do it: the canals of Venice are narrow, and it’s not unlikely that someone in the opposite building has enjoyed an unexpected show.

"I’m wearing the same clothes since this morning, I felt dirty."

"Don’t tell me you opened the door to the waiter who brought dinner, like this!"

"No, I was still wearing my boxers... maybe."

Jealousy explodes inside John: he hates strangers who set their eyes on his husband and make him the object of their fantasies, but right now he’s also furious with Sherlock who shamelessly opened the door without any clothes on...

"You…"

John reaches him in two steps, with his hands planted on the hips, pushes him and throws him on the bed, where Sherlock lands with legs wide apart, then he puts his arms over his head and bites his lips not to burst out laughing.

"I was joking: I was dressed."

"Idiot!" John growls, untying the knot of the bathrobe belt and throwing it behind his shoulder.

Sherlock knows how jealous John can be, and sometimes he enjoys teasing that wild and possessive side of him: it's like playing with fire, he’s aware of it, but he doesn’t mind some burns.

"It was a low blow,” John whispers on his lips, “Now I'm forced to punish you."

"Yes," Sherlock answers, dragging John on his body.

 

The next morning John gets up early, while Sherlock is still asleep, dead to the world (which does a lot of good to John’s ego), and goes buy clothes: some underwear, a pair of jeans and two shirts each, just to manage the emergency of being without luggage.

When he returns to the room, Sherlock is in the shower and breakfast is already on the table.

He comes out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, and looks at the clothes bag with disappointment.

"I thought we decided to spend our holiday naked."

John spits the coffee in the cup and coughs.

"We haven’t decided anything like this: we can’t go around naked!"

"But do we really have to leave the room?"

"Yes, there are many things we have to see," says John, waving a tourist brochure. 

Exactly what Sherlock feared: the sexual component of their honeymoon forgotten in favor of some church that smells like mold and seaweed.

"I booked a visit to the Murano glass museum for mid-morning, so hurry up," John continues.

Sherlock’s knife, that is buttering a slice of bread, stops.

"Ah... then there is something you should know. In the past, I told you that, while I was dismantling Moriarty's criminal organization, I was in Venice for a while."

"Yes, I remember. So what?"

"I was chasing some of Moriarty’s men, we ended up in that museum and... long story short, I was banned for life from it."

John burst out laughing, throwing his head back.

"Good one, but I don’t buy it. And I'm sure that you’ll like the museum, it's interesting."

"It's not a lie!" Sherlock protests, but John doesn’t believe him, and gets up from the table messing up his hair.

Sherlock sighs, irritated: apparently St. Thomas must be convinced by evidence, so he ends up eating, dresses, and diligently follows John to the museum.

They enter by pushing the heavy dark door... and come out after less than two minutes.

John is holding the base of his nose between his fingers, and Sherlock looks at him with his hands sunk into the pockets of his coat, deadpan.

"I told you."

"Sherlock, they have your mug shot on the ticket office wall."

"Yes, well... the chase was less smooth than expected."

"Fantastic. Are there any other places in Venice that you are forbidden to put a foot in?"

"Palazzo Ducale: a coda of the same chase of Moriarty’s men. The church of San Marco: I went there to listen to a Mendelssohn concert and criticized the conductor because he was an idiot."

"And you had to tell him," John breathes, still squeezing the base of his nose.

"Obviously. Oh, Caffè Florian, too: I challenged the owner who claimed that his is the best coffee in Venice. He didn’t take it well."

"I wonder why."

Of course they were all places that John wanted to visit, and that now he must remove from his list, because apparently his husband is a sort of walking public hazard. He glares at the canal in front of them, annoyed enough to meditate on making Sherlock take an off-season dive.

"Do not even think about it!” Sherlock cries, scared, taking a step back. “Where do you think the wastewater from a city without sewers will end up?"

John frowns, horrified.

"My god, I never thought about it."

"That's right, so find another way to vent your frustration. And then it's not my fault if the men I was chasing decided to enter in a museum full of glass!" He pouts.

"All right, all right,” John raises his hands. “Do you think we can at least take a picture in front of the Bridge of Sighs, or will the Carabinieri arrest you as soon as you step into the square?"

"No, we can do that."

Sherlock doesn’t comment that it’s wrong for a couple to take a picture in front of that bridge, because those sighs have nothing to do with love, as that bridge led to prisons. He knows that after having ruined (even inadvertently) the plans John had for the day, so he must endure stoically whatever he wants to do.

But, while they’re waiting on the cold square, it's John who realizes that this place is not for them, that all the couples taking a picture are alike, just like the cloned souvenir shops selling gondolas made with shells or plastic frames, and that there's nothing special about something that everyone does.

But they're not a conventional couple, and John doesn’t want them to be, so he takes Sherlock by the hand and drags him aside.

"John, what are you doing? We’ll lose our spot in the queue."

"You said you already came to Venice. I bet you know the most hidden places in the city: would you like to show them to me?"

Sherlock smiles, kisses him on the forehead, drags him through the calli [2], gradually becoming less crowded, and leads him into the Jewish ghetto, explaining that it’s the oldest ghetto in the world, and illustrating the history of the different palaces. At lunch, they stop in a real kosher restaurant, and in the afternoon Sherlock takes him to the island of San Michele, where there is an ancient cemetery.

It’s something that many people would consider macabre, but for John it’s a pleasure to see Sherlock pass in front of the graves of famous people like the poets Ezra Pound and Iosif Brodskij, talking about their lives and explaining why they are buried there, and when they stop in front of Stravinsky's grave, Sherlock hums The Firebird.

 

The next day, Sherlock takes him again to visit some places not frequented by tourists, but very suggestive, like Sestiere Castello [3], the most ancient core of Venice, but while they are walking back to their hotel, Sherlock looks at the window of a shop of elegant clothes, then at the cheap jeans he wears, and sighs heavily.

“I can’t believe you!” John snaps. “Can’t you live a couple of days without wearing a suit? Posh git..."

"But they are so beautiful," Sherlock complains.

"And so expensive!" John replies, quickly converting the euro price tags into pounds. Seriously? Are they sewn by the fairies?

But it's not only the sloppy clothing that displeases Sherlock. The night before John was tired and fell asleep as soon as he rested his head on the pillow, and he’s being distracted by the beauty of the city, forgetting his marital duties, and that’s a battle that Sherlock has no intention of losing: it’s time to win John's attention back, and he knows exactly how to do it.

"I just wanna take a look," exclaims Sherlock, taking John by the elbow, and the former soldier already knows that the look will turn into buying something, because Sherlock can’t say no to an elegant suit, and he can’t say no to Sherlock.

His husband in a clothing store is like a child in a candy shop, and John has to drag him away from a ivory suit that costs as much as a flat overlooking Buckingham Palace, and a salmon-colored jacket that's sold in pairing with a soft toy lamb, because, really, there is a limit to being a fashionista.

But when Sherlock tries a dark teal suit that seems to have been sewn on his body, and a pearl-gray silk shirt, just a little too tight, the first two buttons open, John stares at him open-mouthed: he will never get used to how Sherlock can be blatantly and rampantly beautiful and desirable, with his elegant yet natural posture, that would send a professional model in therapy.

"This one," croaks John.

"I suspected it. I buy it," Sherlock says to the shop assistant.

"Very well, then you can change..." suggests the woman, pointing to the dressing room.

Sherlock turns to look at his profile in the mirror, caressing the jacket, and John rubs a hand on his face: if only they were in their bedroom...

"No, I keep it. You can burn my other clothes," Sherlock answers, addressing the woman.

"No,” John intervenes, “put them in a bag."

"Uh... all right," the woman murmurs, a little befuddled by that strange couple, and while she goes to take a bag, John slaps lightly Sherlock on his buttocks.

"Damn git, you want to torture me with your new suit until we get back to the hotel."

"Do you really think this about me?" Sherlock asks with faked innocence, “that's not true. Let’s buy something for you, too."

"Sherlock, there's no need..." he tries to protest, but Sherlock doesn’t listen, and so John finds himself in front of the mirror wearing a light gray three-piece suit, whose jacket has an eccentric purple lining, paired with an ice-white shirt and a purple tie. He is a man of simple tastes and doesn’t like excessively to wear suits, but he must admit that those colours and that cut of jacket are just fine on him.

And even Sherlock approves, judging by the colour that rose to his cheeks, and his almost feverish gaze.

John is about to look at the price tag, but Sherlock stops him, handing his credit card to the shop assistant.

"We buy this, too."

"Sherlock, no..."

"You have paid the trip, why can’t I buy my husband a present?"

"All right then, even if I don’t know how many times I'll have the chance to wear such an elegant suit."

"Oh, far more often than you imagine."

John frowns. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock pushes him quickly into the dressing room, and John's brain takes a second too much to realize what he wants to do.

"See, I’m not that cruel, I will not make you wait until we get back to the hotel."

"Stop! Are you crazy? We are in a sho... mmph... "

Sherlock assails him with an almost ferocious kiss, and fondles him voluptuously; John tries to bat his hands away, but Sherlock is like a giant octopus, or a magician with ten arms, because he touch him almost anywhere, and John surrenders in much less time than the decency would impose.

"Please, they will hear us!"

The idea of making out in a dressing room, separated from the rest of the shop by a thin plywood door, terrifies him.

"Then don’t scream."

"What's wrong with you?"

Sherlock kisses him on the neck, goes up to his ear, biting the lobe, and then whispers: "You're wonderful with this suit, I want to eat you."

"Sher... oooh..." John's last resistance falls when Sherlock's tongue slides into his ear, and one knee makes room between his legs.

"Let me do this, John."

Sherlock turns him to the mirror of the dressing room, and pulls down the zip of his trousers.

John can’t take his eyes off the mirror, the ravenous eyes of his husband and his agile hands caressing him over his underwear, already damp with his pre cum.

"Impatient, are we?"

Sherlock's voice, low and sensual, certainly doesn’t help him to maintain control, and soon John's breathing is ragged and heavy.

"I hate you."

"I don’t think so," Sherlock replies with a sly smile, kissing his temple as he looks into his eyes in the mirror.

John taught him everything he knows about sex, and it's almost always him who leads the game, but Sherlock knows that he has a huge power over him, and he likes to use it in the most unexpected moments, and surprise him.

When Sherlock lowers his boxers, John's cock is already erect, dripping and demanding attention.

Sherlock licks the palm of his hand with intentional slowness, and then holds him in a firm grip, that makes John lose the little self-control he still has. He rocks into Sherlock's tight fist, looking in the mirror at his cock, appearing and disappearing between his long fingers.

Sherlock teases the glans, and lifts the hem of his shirt and waistcoat to play with his pubic hair. There is something deliciously obscene in the fact that John is completely dressed and the only exposed part of him is the most intimate one.

"Loose the tie," Sherlock instructs him, and then assails John’s neck, leaving a bruising hickey just below the collar of his shirt.

John's mind is shrouded in an erotic fog, amplified by the sight of what Sherlock is doing.

"Touch yourself," suggests the voice of his husband.

One of John’s hand joins that of Sherlock, tight around his shaft, while the other massages rhythmically his own testicles.

"Look at us, John."

John licks his lips, eyes darting between his face warped in ecstasy, Sherlock’s greedy eyes, and his erection. hard as stone.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock masturbates him faster and faster, bites his neck, and John is clenches his lips tightly so as not to shout when he comes, spurting on the mirror, and then he lies against Sherlock's chest, his legs barely holding him up.

Sherlock steals a last, wet, sensual kiss, then re-zips John’s trousers, retrieves his clothes from the hanger and hands him the coat.

"I hope you have enough energy left to run, because the woman is coming back."

"Shit, shit, shit!" John curses, trying to freshen up and comb his hair with his fingers. He feels his cheek burning with shame when he leaves the dressing room, thinking of what they have just done.

"Be natural" murmurs Sherlock, who looks perfectly innocent, and John can’t help but curse him a little, because he still own a bit of modesty, and will never be able to have Sherlock’s poker face.

They come out of the dressing room, where the shop assistant is waiting with Sherlock's credit card in hand, and a questioning look.

"Ah, thank you," exclaims Sherlock with a smile, taking it, and quickly heads for the exit.

Suspicious, the woman enters the dressing room and, a moment later, her voice echoes in the store.

“Che casso xè successo?” [4]

Sherlock and John are almost at the door, and the detective grabs his husband's hand.

"Run!"

A security guard, who is checking between the shelves, hearing the shop assistant shouting and seeing them running, rushes out the store to chase them through the narrow calli of the city.

John turns to look at him, terrified.

"Why the hell is he chasing us?"

"Because he's an idiot: he believes we've stolen something."

"Well, I certainly won’t stop to explain that we were having sex instead" John replies.

The security guard is very devoted to his duty, because he doesn’t stop, and this forces Sherlock and John to cut through the crowd of tourists, causing mayhem among souvenir shops and outdoor bars.

Sherlock gets caught in the leashes of a man walking three dogs, while John almost collides with a waiter with a huge tray, and their pursuer is getting closer.

"Fuck..." John curses: he already seen himself arrested, thrown on the front page of all Italian newspapers, and banned for life from the Country. Then the echo of the scandal reaches London, where they’re hold up as a shame of the Kingdom, and he ends up fired, because no one listens to him when he tries to defend himself and say that he just wanted to take a holiday, it's not his fault if his husband finds him irresistible in a suit and can’t restrain himself.

"This way!"

Sherlock pulls him by the sleeve of his coat. He has an almost crazy smile on his face and doesn’t seem to share his fears; instead he looks like he’s having a great time, like when they run through the streets of London, and his euphoria ends up infecting John: they are really two madmen made for each other.

They run along a very narrow canal, where two gondolas are about to cross.

Sherlock squeezes John's hand tightly.

"Get ready."

John looks at the two boats, and pales.

"You can’t think of jumping!" He croaks.

"Do you prefer to explain to that guard what we were doing?"

"Hell no!"

"It will be funny."

They jump on the first gondola, perfectly coordinated, from there they move on the other one, ignoring the protests of the two gondoliers, and then jump back on the other side of the narrow canal, and disappear into the crowd.

The security guard plans to do the same, but as soon as he sets foot on the first gondola, the gondolier hits him in the face with the oar, causing him to fall into the water.

"Heck, that’s enough! It's not the set of 007 movie, here!"

 

When Sherlock and John arrive at the hotel, they are short of breath for the run and the laughs.

"Mad... you're barking mad," pants John, pushing Sherlock against the door of their room and kissing him, as he gets rid of his coat.

"Yes. Is it a problem?"

"I have never said that."

Sherlock moves to take off his new jacket, but John stops him. "You're not the only one to be irresistible in a suit," he murmurs, sliding down on his knees before him.

Sherlock closes his eyes and rests his head against the wood of the door.

Sherlock 1 - Venice 0.

 

"Move," mumbles John, with his face sunk into the pillow and his husband plastered on his back.

"Mmh... no" Sherlock answers, rubbing on him.

"It's our last day of holiday,” John protests. “And we've seen almost nothing."

"Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock murmurs, slipping between his legs. “The view from here is pretty great."

"Aren’t you tired yet?" John sighs.

Sherlock's mouth climbs up along John’s right thigh, slow but inexorable toward his goal.

"No, but if you prefer to rest..."

"Oh, shut up!" John replies, spreading his legs.

Sherlock 2 - Venice 0

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Bergamo dialect, it roughly means: "Fuck, wake up, we're waiting here!"  
> [2] "Calle/calli" is the name of the streets of Venice  
> [3] "Sestiere" is a neighbourhood of Venice  
> [4] Venice dialect: "What the fuck happened here?"
> 
> John is deeply ashamed of Sherlock peeing at the side of the road, but there's no reason, it's a fairly common occurrence here.
> 
> And seriously, don't dive into Venice canals... do you have a death wish?
> 
> The title is inspired by the one of an Italian movie, "Venice, the moon and you".


End file.
